


Kane II (Two & a Half Men)

by poisontaster



Series: AKB Outtakes [12]
Category: Actor RPF, CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, M/M, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:30:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff, Jared and Chris start to get used to life together.  Takes place in 1995; Jeff is 29, Chris is 20, Jared is 13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kane II (Two & a Half Men)

It's not that Chris doesn't know the story. Jeff's told it to him often enough. 

Which is actually kind of the problem, because Chris doesn't know anymore whether he actually remembers it or whether his "memories" are just a patch over, a construct made up from Jeff's words, pure imagination and the encyclopedic knowledge of the kinds of things that usually happened to him at one of Lord Zane's parties, if only from the bruises and aches—and the discreet visit from a former Commerce doc—afterward. 

Though knowledge is a pretty generous term; Chris spent most of his time with Zane zinged out on _something_. Zane didn't much like sobriety—his or anyone else's. Even the memories that feel etched in crystal clarity are suspect. And, like crystal, prone to fragment under probing. 

But it's not like he can go back to Jeff and say, _I just don't remember this thing that means so much to you._

After the guy spent four years looking for him, he can't just say, _You were one faceless fuck out of many._ Jeff's okay, as far as that goes, but no master wants to hear that. 

For a while he tried to remember, he really tried. Not because he wanted to (fuck, no, he didn't) but because it seemed like it would please Jeff if he did. It's a body-slave thought and it was fucking embarrassing to realize he was having it, that _that_ was why he was rooting through that psychedelic box of razors in his mind…and so he made himself stop, disgusted. After that first time, Jeff's never asked, anyway.

But he feels like that question's always there between them

It creeps in, you know. That's how it really works, to hell with all the collars, or the Escrow Houses or the brand on the back of your neck. The real deal is when you find yourself reliving your worst fucking memories (heh) just because you think it'll make your master happy _and you don't even know that's why you're doing it_. 

Instinct like a dumbass, wagging tail dog. 

Jeff makes it easy, in a way. He doesn't treat Chris like an equal, exactly—he can't—but he does treat Chris like a man, a friend. When they do that, an owner, it makes it easy to want to make them happy, keep them pleased. Do what it takes, maintain the status quo, for as long as you can.

His years with Lady Marlee aside, Chris's got no experience with how to pick it apart, liking a man because you actually _like_ him, versus falling in with him because he took the time to be kind to you. Maybe there is no way to pick it apart. Either way, Chris doesn't much want to think about that, either. 

He is, however, spending a lot of time thinking about getting laid.

***

It's inevitable, he guesses. He's a guy in his prime and he's been fucking _somebody_ , on a pretty constant basis, for the last six years of his life.

It's funny; given how little choice he had about it all, he didn't think he'd miss it. Thought he'd be just as glad to be left alone. At first, he was, luxuriating in a bed—and a room, a whole room!—to himself. A room with a door he can lock and that no one has beaten him for locking, though he spent the better part of his first month in Jeff's house lying awake, waiting for the rattle of the knob, the lurch of the wood in the jamb. Truth be told, he's not even sure Jeff knows he's been locking it.

(It bothers him sometimes, how much that irritates him)

But all that was six months ago, and he got bored and mostly started sleeping again, and in the meantime, his libido's come roaring back, scratching and growling like a cougar under his skin. His good right hand's not doing the job, that's for sure, though Chris feels like he's skinned his palm and his dick near raw trying. Problem is, there isn't a whole lot he can do about it. 

In another house… 

Well, in another house, Chris just wouldn't have this problem. But, putting that aside, if he was in another house and for whatever reason, his owner didn't want him, he'd usually have no problem finding one of his fellow slaves willing to help scratch the itch. But in Jeff's house, this giant, mostly-empty house, it's just him and Jeff and Jared. Jeff's not interested and Jared…

Jared.

At thirteen, Jared's legal. Legally more than old enough for fucking, but Chris's never done a boy that young, even when he _was_ that young himself, and sheltered as he is, Jared comes off as even younger. He's not a bad looking kid—and when he's older, Chris's willing to wager he'll look even better—but right now, he looks like what he is: a kid. 

Not that that's stopped Chris from looking, God help him. It's got that bad.

Even if none of that was true, though, Jared's special to Jeff. It's not sexual—Chris would know, would be able to tell—and it's not possessive, exactly, except the way Jeff's wolf-pack possessive about what might hurt something of his, but there's definitely something there. Something Chris isn't able to put his finger on. Jeff isn't talking and Jared—who can't hold water, even with a bucket—doesn't know. 

Jared was born in old Master Morgan's house. That much Chris got, paging through the little nothing of Jared's provenance. Jeff took him in at three, which is about as young as you can buy a kid. 

Chris has considered maybe Jared's a half-brother to Jeff, born on the wrong side of the collar, but as yet, he hasn't been able to find any proof for his theory. Other than a certain coloring of the eyes they don't look much alike. Not like Jeff and Javier, stamped out from the same mold. 

In any case, Jeff definitely gives many fucks when it comes to Jared and, legal or not, Chris isn't sure what he'd do or what would happen if Chris overcame his own skittishness to try and bang the kid. 

All things being equal, doesn't seem like the smart thing to even try. 

_Hear that?_ Chris gives his dick a little adjust. _We're going with the big brain._

***

"The problem is sex."

Chris's eyebrows fly up before he can get a handle on his face. "I…what…excuse me?" Voice, too, swinging hard between his native twang and what Commerce trained into him.

The facility administrator, Mistress Graham, sighs, folding her hands on the blotter. This is of a piece with Chris's new oddball life. 

Chris went through training twice; once when he and his family were liquidated and once as part of his 'reeducation' after Lady Marlee. Neither of those had been a damn thing like this cushy, liberal, Commerce-approved-but-not-Commerce-owned 'education center'.

"This is why I was trying to work up to this gently," she says. "As I was saying, Jared is amazing, talented boy. When Jeff enrolled him here," _Jeff_ , Chris notes, with interest, "he was very firm that he did not want Jared tapped for body-slave training. Though, for the record, I think Jared demonstrates a lot of talent that would make him an excellent body-slave."

Chris files this information away with the rest. So Jeff hasn't fucked Jared—which isn't all that surprising, Jeff doesn't seem like a kid fucker, though he'll apparently fuck most anything else that moves—and has further declined to _have_ Jared trained for fucking. Not that Chris didn't trust what his eyes were telling him, but it's always better to have something empirical to pin it on. 

"Master Morgan has other plans for Jared." Not that Chris has a fucking _clue_ what they are…but Graham's not going to know that, not from him. 

"Oh, yes, of course," Graham hastens to agree, smiling her bright, nervous smile. Chris wonders how much money Jeff's socking into this place on Jared's behalf. "Jared's the kind of boy who'll be excellent at whatever you eventually put him to. But—as I'm sure you know from your own instruction—vocational training is very different than that of a body-slave."

A lightbulb flares; solid ground once again. "Jared's reaching the end of his curriculum."

"Yes!" Graham agrees, looking relieved and way too excited that he understands. "By next year, the majority of Jared's peers will be going to their various apprenticeships or trades, but as far as I know, nothing like that has been set up for Jared?" 

"Jared's been in my master's service much longer than I have. I'm not privy to all his plans, but that's something I'd be happy to get back to you about."

"Of course," Graham agrees readily. "Decisions don't have to be made today. But we make it our mission to prepare all our charges to the best of our ability for their future service." She shuffles through the papers on her desk, then gives an almost soundless sigh. "Another thing that we do need to discuss, however, is the _other_ implication of Jared's age."

Chris blinks.

"Sex," Graham says again. "As I said before, Jared's a bright boy, a curious boy. And he's thirteen."

Aw, fuck. 

This shit is _not fair._

***

"Okay, look," Chris says. "This isn't something you can talk to Jeff about, okay?"

"Okay," Jared agrees, picking at the scrubby grass. He squints. "What can't I tell Jeff?"

Chris sighs. This isn't what he imagined when Jeff told him to take care of this. And damn him for being stupid enough to feel _good_ that Jeff was giving him more to do, trusting him. 

Probably not what Jeff imagined either, if anyone told him about it, which Chris isn't planning to do, and Jared won't either, if he knows what's good for him.

God, this sucks. 

"Look, I like Jeff, okay?" Chris starts. Because he does, but more importantly, because _Jared_ likes Jeff. "I get that Jeff's a good guy. But you're a smart—" He starts to say _kid_ , then checks himself. And not just because of Jared's delicate sensibilities. 

This is what comes from falling in too deep with a guy like Jeff. 

If Jared was what Jeff keeps wanting to pretend he is, that'd be one thing. But this side of the collar, Jared's not a kid. Legally, Jared's not a kid. He's old enough for anything—anything—his owner wants to put him to. 

_Jared's the kind of boy who'll be excellent at whatever you eventually put him to._

And it might please Jeff to keep Jared like a hothouse flower, but _Jared_ , at least, needs to know the score. 

"—guy," Chris finishes. "You understand that there's some fundamental differences between you and me," Chris gestures between them, _us_ , "and Jeff." He pushes his hand out, setting a visual distance between them. "Right?"

Jared blinks, like he isn't sure what Chris is getting at. "Yeah. Sure."

"The thing is… For the rest of your life, there's gonna be stuff that Jeff—or whoever, whoever owns you—just won't get. No matter how nice they are." He looks at Jared's face, trying to see if he understands, but Chris is shit at reading people's eyes, so he adds, "Because we're slaves. And it's different for us."

Jared huffs and rolls his eyes. "I know that."

"No," Chris says, more gently than he wants to, given the hot pulse in his chest. This kid. This fucking kid. "You don't. You've only ever been three places your entire life and the first one don't count. You don't have any idea what it's like, when the guy that owns you isn't someone like Jeff. When it's someone like Lord Cruise."

Jared's nose wrinkles. "Okay, but _no one_ likes Lord Cruise."

"People give lip service to how awful and terrible Cruise is," Chris corrects. Cruise had come to Zane's parties, sometimes, and Chris had never been so glad of his age, before or since. "But there's a lot more just like him, except they diddle their child-slaves at home, in secret, where no one's looking and no one cares." 

Finally, Jared looks interested, though Chris doesn't fool himself that it's at all for the right reasons. Jared's just so fucking _green_. And has no survival instincts to speak of…though that's not his fault. 

"Really? Who?"

"Jared." Chris says the name like a poke, make sure he's really got the kid's attention. "I was two years younger than you when me and my entire family were sold for debt. And I was considered _old_. Old for body-slave training, anyhow. Commerce thinks you're too…set in your ways to be properly subservient, that age. But I was pretty. Sometimes that's all it takes."

"I asked Jeff about it once." Jared looks down at his hands, outsize on thin wrists. His voice is newly broken and sounds like it. "Body-slave training. Not…not 'cause I want to _do_ that, really, but they get to take all the really interesting classes. History, geography, _languages_ …" There's a note in Jared's voice like when Chris thinks about picking up one of the guitars gathering dust in the garage loft. "I mean, I can look up things on Jeff's computer—"

"Jesus, Jared—" Chris grabs Jared's arm, too hard. "You can't just…" He makes himself unwrap his fingers, a little sick at how fast the instinct comes: to hit Jared, hurt him. "Probably no one's monitoring—probably—but you can get in a lot of trouble… _Jeff_ can get in a lot of trouble if you're not careful, if they know you're looking at that stuff."

He can see from Jared's face that it's never occurred to him, what kind of a shitstorm it'll be, if anyone finds out that Jeff's giving a vocational slave access to whatever the fuck he wants to look at, whatever's out there on the internet to be found. Chris massages his temples. He's got to get this kid in hand. Fast.

"You want to learn, fine, make Jeff get you books. Dead paper that can't be traced like an internet history. And for fuck's sake don't let anyone know that you know what you know. Not even the other slaves at the training facility."

"They wouldn't tell anyone," Jared protests, though Chris can see some of the brains Graham spent a half hour telling him about, because Jared sounds at least a little doubtful about it. "They're my friends."

"They're other people's property. And most of their owners won't give two fucks together for hurting one of them—or even just _asking_ one of them—if it gets them one iota of advantage over Jeff, one thing they can hold against him, one thing that smells a little whiffy. 

"And Jeff, he'll just lose his reputation and maybe his money, but we'll get sold, Jared. We could end up medical waste or on a mining colony or dead. Just a bolt-gun to the back of the head dead, like we're fucking cattle." Chris only ever saw that once, but it's not the kind of experience you want to repeat. Jared looks equal parts intrigued and nauseated.

"You're thirteen and I get that's not so old, but for a slave, it's old. It's old enough. Old enough to be sold. Old enough to be beaten or starved or shut up in a hot box in the sun. Old enough to be fucked."

Jared flinches and, beneath his tan, Chris can see hot, blushy color come up in Jared's cheeks, like a burn. Jesus, _thirteen_.

"My first owner, she was…a soft touch." He skips around the dangers of the "A" word. "She didn't fuck me, though she could've. My second owner, though… He liked virgins. I was a year older than you are now." Chris swallows, the back of his throat sour and knotty. Fucking Rubens. "Next guy after him…he liked to drug me up and then share me around." Chris shakes his head. "I ain't going through my whole history for you, but I'm twenty years old, Jared. I've had seven owners and I've been fucked by more people than you've met in your entire life. I got scars and nightmares and a shitton of hang ups, some of which I'm only just now starting to figure out…and I'm _lucky_."

Jared looks startled, but it fades fast and Chris can see him thinking about it, really _thinking_ about it. 

Thank fuck.

"You have to be smarter and better and more grown up, Jared. You have to be."

Jared nods.

Chris bumps shoulders with Jared. "Jaybird, you know you can't be messing around with the kids at the facility, right?"

Jared inhales sharply, then the blush comes back. He false-starts several times, before finally, strangled, coming out with: "A-Alexis didn't get in trouble, did she?"

Maybe there's hope for the guy yet.

***

Vegas.

Jeff doesn't make Chris drink with him, but Chris's been drinking with Jeff all the same. Because he can. Because he wants to, and because he and Jeff (with generous help from Jeff's bevy of minions) just closed one cock-sucker of an important deal, and hell yeah. 

But let's call it what it is: it's not the drink. After a couple of celebratory scotches, they'd switched by mutual agreement to beer and Chris can drink beer like it's water. 

It's not the booze. 

It's not the booze, and it's not the horniness—though that hasn't gone anywhere—and it's not the body-slave thing (though he thinks he might could fuck Jeff just to avoid sleeping in the narrow trundle bed that folds out from the base of Jeff's King).

It starts in the bar. Suddenly; just Jeff throwing up his hand to the bartender for another round and all at once, Chris is thinking about what those big silver rings would feel like against the heat of his dick, if Jeff wrapped his fingers around him, or what those long, blunt fingers would feel like, teasing him apart, rubbing on his prostate. He thinks about Jeff's fist inside him, big and clenched, and Chris honest to God almost swoons, right there at the table. 

It passes—Chris _makes_ it pass—but what he can't get rid of is the sharp, electric awareness of Jeff's body next to his. 

It's like the awareness of his owners—the ones who would hit—knowing how close they were, cataloging each movement of their body…but it's different, too, in ways that Chris can't quite put his finger on. Maybe just that he's not flinching away from every unexpected move Jeff makes, though it feels like more than that. 

Okay, maybe that's the booze talking. 

But in the elevator up, when they're doing that sorta-drunk, late-night lean against the back wall, Jeff puts his shoulder against Chris's and, even without Chris humming like a live wire with the awareness of Jeff, this is definitely different. 

Body-service is, often, exactly that; impossible for Chris not to notice the stiff distance Jeff keeps between them, or how that distance has slowly and imperceptibly closed over the last several months. Jeff's a touchy-feely guy. Not in the sly, creepy way that some owners get, when they can't or won't admit what they want; with Jeff, it's unconscious, an impersonal affection that slops all over everyone.

Everyone except Chris. 

At least until now. 

Even as Chris is running calculations on what it means, that hungry, watching part of him prowls out of the shadows and stretches. 

Jeff's not a bad guy. Not bad looking, either. And considering he's fucked everyone he knows and they're all still talking to him, he can't be too bad in the sack. Fucking him won't be awful. Probably. And at least then he'll be fucking _somebody_.

He just needs to figure out his plan of attack. 

Chris has been trained. He didn't _like_ his training, but Commerce is a machine and like a machine it is ruthlessly efficient at what it does. Chris may mouth off more than he should and slop at his manners when he can get away with it, but he is very damn good at what he does when he makes the bother. 

Point is, he knows how to seduce a man, if it's needful. 

( _Jesus, fuck, it's needful_ )

Which is why he's got no damn idea why the next words out of his mouth, tearing apart the comfortable quiet of the elevator, are: "We need to talk about Jared."

"Oh yeah." Jeff stretches like Chris caught him dozing on his feet. There's a syrupy slur under his words that says maybe he's a little more drunk than Chris thought. "That thing with his school. How'd that go? All taken care of?"

The shocks on the elevator are excellent; the door opens on their floor without Chris feeling a hint of deceleration. Jeff seems inclined to stay where he is; it takes a hand to his shoulder and a subtle push to get him moving. 

"It's fine," Chris prevaricates, deciding to skip over the part where Jared got caught messing around with some of his fellow slaves. He'd given the kid his last tube of lube from his Commerce package from his Closing and showed him how to log-on to the continuing education porn sites for body-slaves on Chris's laptop. It's not ideal, but it'll do until Chris can figure out something better, the half-formed idea percolating in the back of his mind. 

Jeff's patting himself down but shows no sign of actually coming up with his room key, so Chris produces his, lets them in. "Thing is," Chris says, as Jeff toes out of his dress shoes with a groan, "Jared's coming up on the end of training for a vocational slave and no one seems to know what Jared should be doing next."

Jeff sinks down on the sitting room couch with a second grateful moan. Chris, who brought Jeff's suit jacket up from the bar, fishes the tie—rolled and forgotten—out of the pocket and drapes them both over a hanger, while Jeff untucks, unbuttons and strips out of his shirt. "Did Jared say what he wants to do next?" Jeff asks, right when Chris thinks he's going to have to repeat himself.

Chris stares, aware he's gawping but unable to help himself. Every time he thinks he's getting used to the amazing what-iffery that comes from Jeff's mouth… "I…didn't think to ask him," Chris says through his teeth, ignoring the itch in his fingers as Jeff's dress shirt falls, disregarded, into the corner of the couch. Lady Roberts liked things kept tidy. Jeff doesn't seem to mind when Chris gets horrified enough to clean after him, but he doesn't expect it and Chris hates when he finds himself acting like he's supposed to when he doesn't have to. 

Jeff throws both arms out on the couch, one of those king-of-the-castle things he does without really knowing he's doing it. "Okay," Jeff shrugs," so we'll talk to Jared about it when we get back, see what he wants to do, figure out where to go from there."

"I…yeah. Sure." He shouldn't be surprised. Everything else about Jared has Jeff treating him like a protected and beloved son; why should this be any different? 

As the thought occurs to him, Chris wonders if that's it. Sixteen isn't too young for Jeff to have knocked up one of the family slaves. 

"Something on your mind?" Jeff asks

Chris shakes his head. "Just thinking about Jared." A hesitation as much artful as actual. "He's a smart kid. Mistress Graham suggested he might be a better fit as a body-slave."

"That fucking woman." 

It's not that Chris has forgotten he needs to be afraid of Jeff. But months of Uncle Fuzzy has dulled the fear and feeling it rush back now, bright and electric, it's like a snort, it's familiar and awesome and sickening all at the same time.

"If she asks you about it again, you make it clear to her, in no uncertain terms," Jeff says, getting up from the couch, and it takes no small amount of nerve for Chris to hold his ground and not retreat across the carpet, "that I will not, I _will not, ever_ let Jared be trained as a body-slave and if I hear she's been putting those ideas in his head, I will _erase_ her school from the face of the planet."

"Yeah, boss." Chris's voice sticks a little in his throat, but not so Jeff would notice, he thinks. Then, proving what a suicidal asshole he is: "But have you thought at all that keeping Jared as a vocational slave might just be a complete waste of the kid's mind and talents?"

Again the sick, sparkly high of an adrenaline surge at Jeff's glare, at seeing Jeff's thick hands flex and fist. "Oh yeah, dishing him out to be fucked by some old perv is a _great_ use of Jared's _brain_."

"Is that all you think I do?" Chris doesn’t know what the hell happened to his self-preservation. He sure doesn't seem to be using any of it. "You're not even fucking me, man, if that's the case, what the hell am I doing here?"

Chris angles his chin up, ready to roll with it, if Jeff decks him. It bugs him how much it stings; Jeff's hardly the first guy to think that about body-slaves. Not even the first guy to say it to Chris's face. It's just that he was starting to really like the guy. It's that he let himself feel something when, just a few hours ago, Jeff had said, all off-handed, "You know, you're really good at this."

God _dammit_.

Jeff doesn't hit him. "No…of course I'm not… That's not what I meant," Jeff offers finally, sinking back to the couch and knotting his hands between his spread knees. "But you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know what you mean." Chris rolls the metal adrenaline taste around on his tongue, wonders if his leash extends to grabbing a soda from the wet bar. "But you know that's not all there is to it. Jared… That kid's got a powerful hunger. For the kind of knowledge he's never going to get as a drone."

"I know that." Jeff passes a hand over his mouth, dragging it out of shape. "But…" He looks up at Chris and he doesn't look drunk anymore, just tired. "I promised Jared's mom that I'd keep him away from that life."

Chris calculates briefly in his head, lets himself come around, perch on the edge of the chair opposite Jeff. "If you're not planning on selling the kid and you're not planning on fucking him…what difference does it make?"

Jeff looks at him. "It matters. You know it does."

Jeff can be dumb about a lot of things, but he's not wrong about this. "Yeah," Chris agrees. "Fine. It does matter. There are ways around it."

"Yeah?" Jeff leans back, looks interested. "How?"

***

Chris's room reeks like fucking brothel when they get back, but at least it's a sign Jared took their little talk to heart. He opens all the windows and makes himself run through the half-finished bridge of the song that's been knocking around in the back of his mind.

Anything to keep from imagining Jared jerking off in Chris's chair. 

He hadn't fucked Jeff while they were in Vegas. In the end, he hadn't even tried.

As a curiosity, Chris goes through the history. It's all pretty vanilla; the sweet stuff, though it looks like Jared at least took a peek at the Kinbaku channel. Fairly even splits on the gender possibilities.

…and there goes another thought that Chris doesn't need to be having about Jared.

"Hey."

Chris swivels in the chair like he was goosed. "Heeey. Jared."

"Are you busy? I can go, if you're busy. I didn't want anything special."

"Nah, I'm not busy." Chris leans back, the chair squeaking under him. "What's up?"

Jared shakes his head, edging into the room. "Nothing. Just…glad to see you guys are back."

"Aw, did you miss us?" Chris eels out of the chair and drags Jared into a headlock, ruffling his hair. Christ, seems like the Jared's grown a couple inches just in the few days they've been gone. "Were you sad?"

"I wasn't _sad_!" 

Jared's elbows are like shivs and he's not real discriminate or coordinated with them; after only a couple minutes of wrestling Chris pushes him away. "Enough!"

Jared grins and it's like one of those optical illusions: first the boy, then the man, shifting back and forth. And if that's not a fucking metaphor… Chris sighs, loops his arm around Jared's shoulders. "C'mon. Time for another talk."

***

"So…"

At the sound of Jeff's voice, Chris freezes.

"…Jared seems happy."

Jeff sounds amused. Looks it, too, when he comes up and out from behind the pony wall that hides the stairs to the loft, and, though he doesn't outwardly move, Chris relaxes. Strums the guitar a couple times to prove he's unfazed by Jeff's sudden appearance. "What're you going to do?" Chris shrugs, fiddling with the D string key. "The kid's a nerd. Give him some extra classes and he's in hog heaven." 

Jeff laughs, setting his butt on the pony wall and stretching his legs out. "That he is." Jeff's fingers drum on the plaster. Not like he's agitated, more like he's got something on his mind. He doesn't say anything else, though, and after fiddling with the tuning for a minute or so, Chris sets the guitar flat on his thighs. 

"Something on your mind, boss?"

"Me, Brent and Burke…These guys I grew up with…" Jeff huffs soundless kind of laugh, shifting on the wall and planting a hand on his thigh. "We started up this band." Jeff flicks his finger toward the guitar. "We were going to be fucking rock gods." 

"What happened?"

"Oh, well, I can't sing or play worth a damn." This time Jeff laughs out loud, hearty and barking and Chris, imagining it, laughs with him. Jeff shrugs. "That was pretty much the end of that."

Chris nods, makes a low noise of acknowledgement. He was in deep before Jeff interrupted him; his foot's still tapping to a beat only he can hear. It's affecting his ability to ferret out what Jeff wants from this conversation and Jeff isn't really helping. 

Finally, Jeff sighs. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said in the hotel. You caught me off-guard, I was drunk, I was an ass."

Chris shrugs. It surprises him every time Jeff apologizes to him, but he's getting better at not showing it. Still hasn't figured out what to do with them, though. "I didn't get my feelings hurt."

"Chris."

"I heard you." Chris replaces the guitar in the stand and runs his hands down his jeans. "I just… You're not the first person to think I'm a dumb whore or to say it to my face. I'm thicker skinned than that, man."

"I don't think that." Jeff shuffles his feet, hands going to his hips. "I _don't_ think that. This deal we put together…it's a thing of beauty. And I couldn't have done it without you. I know that." He scratches the back of his head, his neck, looking off, out the garage window. "I meant it when I said you're really good at this."

Chris _hehs_ , louder than he means to. He didn't think Jeff would remember saying that. 

"And this thing with Jared…I appreciate you walking me through it."

"It's not a big deal."

Jeff makes a noise like a growl. "It is a big deal," he insists. "I just…just let me apologize, okay? Let me thank you."

"You can," Chris agrees. "And I'll listen, for as long as you want me to, Master." He says it calmly, without any bite or special emphasis. "But I don't need it. I don't need you to thank me or say you're sorry. We're all just doing our job, here."

Jeff tilts his head, mouth tightening and hardening. "So…what _do_ you need?"

"I…what?" They're ten feet apart, but Chris feels like Jeff just low-balled him in the stomach.

Jeff spreads his hands. "You said you don't need my apology or my thanks. Okay, fine. What'd'you need?"

Chris breathes out. Contrary to how he thought this would go, there's no calculation, no seduction. He just gets up from the chair and walks over to Jeff, folding down into a kneel easy as breathing.

"Chris…what…?" Jeff flinches and might have gone over the wall, except Chris hauls him back by his grip on Jeff's belt.

"You asked what I need." It's been months, but he hasn't lost any dexterity, flicking the leather through and out the buckle, peeling it aside to get to the button on Jeff's jeans, slip down the zipper.

Jeff isn't hard when Chris opens up the placket of his jeans, but Chris finds the bulge of his sac through the denim, breathes, mouths over the soft shaft hidden under seriously hideous polka-dot boxers and… _there_ is the stir of interest Chris wants/needs.

_"Chris."_ It's a groan, but Jeff grabs Chris's wrist, squeezing but not actually shoving Chris away. It's not a no. 

"Please." The word comes easier of his tongue with all those dry months driving it. He breathes in, that particular aroma of cock-and-balls, and his stomach rumbles, all the wires crossed and sparking off. He grabs onto Jeff's tee-shirt, pulling—hauling—him down, off the pony wall. Jeff grunts as his knees thud down onto the shag carpeting.

"Chris," Jeff protests again. Chris kisses Jeff—anything to head him off, shut him up—and wraps his legs around Jeff's waist, writhing against him. He's not gifted with words, but he can convince Jeff with his body, he knows it. 

For a moment, Chris thinks he has him. Jeff's hand fists the denim at Chris's hip, his mouth surges against Chris's, hot and wet, and his cock was already in the game. 

But then Jeff's pushing Chris away, tearing away himself. "Chris…mmmph…no. _No_ , okay? No."

There's only so much fighting Chris is willing to do for this. He lapses back onto the carpet, aching, and Jeff stays where he is, balanced on his knees between Chris's spread thighs. They're both panting like they've been fighting for real. 

"You can't want this," Jeff says finally.

Chris shrugs. "I'm grown, yours and this hard-on's not just for show." Chris wraps his fingers around his cock, pushing out from his shorts. He's high-strung enough that even that makes his hips roll, sweet heaviness in his nuts. "This doesn't have to be complicated."

Jeff snorts, watching Chris's idle play with his dick with all the attention Chris could hope for. Then he scrapes his hand down his face and goes back to looking Chris in the eye. "It's already complicated, man."

"Look, I want it," Chris says, abandoning seduction. He sits up, puts his hand cautiously on one of Jeff's thighs. "Okay? I _want_ to have sex with you, or fuck, or hell, even make love, if that's what you wanna call it. Any or all of that sounds just fine with me!"

"Well, I don't want to fuck you," Jeff says flatly, sitting back on his heels and then standing. The semi he's sporting would seem to contradict that, but Jeff tucks it away, zips and buckles himself up again. 

"I'm not your goddamn penance!" Chris yells, because he's got no survival instinct whatsoever to speak of, apparently.

Jeff's hands clench up and in his face is the same scary guy from Vegas, the one who could really fucking hurt Chris if Jeff were wired just one little bit different. But instead, after a minute, Jeff's shoulders slump down and he just looks tired. "No," he agrees. "You're not. But you are a mistake I don't want to make again." He moves off toward the stairs, gets a couple risers down before he glances over the top of the pony wall at Chris again. "We're a great team, man. Let's just leave it at that."

"Yeah." Chris falls back on the carpet again, hand still wrapped around his wilting dick, unsure if he's going to finish himself or just forget about it. "Yeah, okay. Great plan, boss, glad we had this talk!"

"Don't call me boss!" Jeff calls back from below and, against his will, Chris grins.

***

Jared's in Chris's room again, when Chris finally drags himself inside. Pants pushed down to his knees, the little shit, and fisting his cock like he's afraid it's getting away from him.

"OUT!" Chris yells, because he just does not have the patience for this shit. Not now. "Get the fuck out, you little pervert, out!"

Jared jumps up and runs out, full of embarrassed apologies and Chris will probably feel terrible about this later, but at the moment, he's got problems of his own. Chris collapses on the bed, throws his arm over his eyes and turns his brain off for a while.

That's another thing Zane taught him.

***

"You're running late this morning," Jeff observes, when Chris gives up on waiting for Jeff to leave the kitchen and its precious resources of coffee.

There's a hundred ways Jeff could've meant that, but he sounds like this is just any other day. If it's meant to be reassuring, to lull Chris, it has the opposite effect, setting up the hackles on his neck. 

Chris grunts a vague acknowledgment, grabbing yesterday's mug from the drainer and rinsing it under the tap. Somebody's going to have to break down and do dishes soon. Probably him; he needs to rack up some good-slave brownie points after yesterday's catastrophic fuck-up. 

_What did you do, you dumb motherfucker, what did you DO?_

His gut's already churning and sour from his middle of the night panic attack; putting coffee on top of it is probably a mistake, but he's not going to get through today without some caffeine. He compromises by dumping half the carton of half-and-half in the cup, a gesture that earns him raised eyebrows from Jeff. 

"Where's the kid?" The sink is stacked with Jared's ubiquitous cereal bowls, but none of them look like they're from this morning. 

"I yelled at him once to get up." Jeff turns away from the window, leaning his hips against the counter. "Your guess is as good as mine whether he actually did." Jeff sighs and puts his mug down. "I'll get him."

"I got it." Chris makes a _stay there_ gesture, glad both to escape the kitchen and for the opportunity to rack up some of those good-boy points. 

He doesn't _think_ Jeff will sell him; Jeff's guilt about fucking him at one of Zane's parties should, at least, be good enough for that. But you never can tell. Lady Marlee never thought Lord Hurt would turn on her like he did and she came within kissing distance of slavery herself for that mistake. 

As expected, Jared has fallen back to sleep. Chris shakes him awake—for real this time—and frog-marches him into the shower, virtuously ignoring Jared's not inconsiderable morning wood except to growl on his way out, "And we're already late, so just wash your dick, man, don't sit around playing with it!"

Who's he kidding? Jared's at that age where all roads lead to his dick. He'll probably squirt himself twice before Chris gets to the kitchen. 

"I shoved him in the shower," Chris says as he crosses the threshold, "though God knows…" He trails off when he catches sight of Jeff's face, grim and pale and stiff. A fast, thinking pause, then: "Who?"

"My…my father," Jeff says, the rasp in his voice more pronounced than usual. His thumb scrapes his lower lip. "He's not dead, just…in the hospital. A heart attack."

"I'll book a flight." This is Richard's second heart attack, if Chris remembers correctly (and he knows he does). Not good. Except how, for Chris, it might be _very_ good. "And call Lettie…"

"No." Jeff's eyes stop just floating in Chris's general direction and actually focus on him. "Just make the flight for me. I want you to stay here with Jared."

"But—" Chris makes his mouth shut on the protest. _Good slave, remember?_ He wonders if this is just the prelude to Jeff selling him anyway. "Okay," he says instead, turning around, leaving the kitchen a second time. "I'll go make travel arrangements. You want a car?"

"Chris." Jeff may not like owning slaves, but at moments like this, you can tell he was born to it, that way of controlling you by voice alone, without even making it sound like the command it is. Chris stops where he is, playing statues. 

"Chris…" Jeff sighs. "Please, could you just…look at me? Please?"

Chris huffs, turns around. 

"My family's old-fashioned," Jeff says, in that same quiet, overly-calm voice. "They don't approve of…" Jeff's mouth flexes, neither smile nor frown, "my _choice_ of body-slaves. That's all it is. I'm going to have enough to deal with; I don't want to have a dust-up with them about that, too."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Chris says, his tone as careful as Jeff's. 

"No," Jeff agrees. "I don't have to." He scratches idly at the back of his neck, coming out of the first wave of shock and paralysis. "But you'll be dealing with my family, too. You might as well know about them now."

_Not going to get sold, then._ And then, because he's a realist, _not right now, at least._

Chris hates the liquid-bowel relief, the licking dog gratitude. Hates them most of all because, unlike the collar, it's not something he can just take off; it comes from the inside. 

But he's _glad_ , he is grateful. Because Jeff maybe won't fuck him and Jeff maybe thinks he's a mistake, but as owners go, Jeff's not so bad. If it has to be someone, Jeff's not bad at all. 

"Okay." Chris nods. "You want a hotel room?"

"I'd love one." Jeff smiles, but it's the dark one. "But my mother'll have a coronary if I don't stay at the house. Just the car."

"Okay," Chris says again, already mentally shuffling appointments and meetings in his head.

"Hey, Chris?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Chris grumbles a distracted "Yeah, yeah," waving a dismissive hand. Under his breath: "You're welcome."

***

Jeff's dad's in a bad way. They're talking transplant. Jeff doesn't know when he'll be able to get away.

Life without Jeff—or, more accurately, with Jeff a thousand miles away—is actually a lot busier than when Jeff's around. Jared and the house, playing middle man between Jeff and everyone else at work. 

More surprisingly, Chris is finding he likes it, is _good_ at it, though it's different than anything he's done before, closer to the Agent end of body-slavery than the pretty-l'il-whore role he's used to. And, though there's a couple of suck-egg assholes, that's how everyone treats him, the voice and will of his absent master, sure, but also almost like a man in his own right. Someone to be worked with, someone to be listened to.

What else it is, though, is _exhausting_. 

On the plus side, Chris hasn't thought about his dick in days.

***

It's late. Chris can feel that, in a bone-deep, familiar way, when the faint squeak of his door and the change in air pressure force him up through the cotton-batting layers of sleep.

It's late and there's someone at his bedroom door. Chris's belly tautens, hot with that horrible mix of want and wariness. He set the path for this, right? "J-jeff?" It comes thick off his tongue, fuzzy as his mouth feels, still mostly asleep as he tries to push up in the tangled sheets.

"No." Chris recognizes Jared's light, but deepening voice even before the stammered, "It's…it's Jared."

Chris digs his heels into the mattress and pushes up, trying to do the same with his sleep-mazed brain. "What's up, Jaybird? Couldn't sleep?"

Against the ambient non-light, Jared's long, slender shape is barely visible, but he can hear Jared restlessly picking at the jamb, a habit when he's nervous or got something on his mind.

"Jared?"

"I need… Will you show me?"

"Whu…show you?" Chris isn't nearly awake enough for this, whatever _this_ is.

"S-sex and…stuff."

It feels like someone drags a nail down Chris's back, light enough to tickle and tingle the skin beneath. "Jared."

"I know!" Jared throws up his arms, lets them fall back to his thighs with a slap. As Chris's eyes adjust, he sees Jared is only wearing pajama pants, the bare skin of his chest pearly-looking despite his tan. "But…there isn't anybody else."

Chris's hands flex and slide on his thighs, hearing his own thoughts parroted back from Jared's mouth. Where did Kane think this was all going, all this time? If there's no one else for him, there's no one else for Jared, either. That's just facts.

"I won't tell Jeff…I know he wouldn't like it. But…" Jared sighs, sounding almost grown-up, almost like a man. "There isn't anybody else," he says again.

There isn't. And no one else who will—or can—show Jared the things he'll need to know.

"Chris—"

Kane sighs, cold despite the traitorous frisson down to his cock. "Yeah, kid." He throws the blanket back, pats the mattress and swallows through the dryness of his throat. "C'mere. I'll show you."


End file.
